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Philip Hammonde.’
    ‘Ham monde ,’
I hammed.   ‘With an ‘e’ at the
end.’
    Clara was snorting.   I had forgotten the peculiar texture of
her laughter.   ‘C’mon, Papa!   He’s not all that bad!’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ I said.   ‘He is a terrible man.   A terrible, terrible man.’
    ‘Mum said you were actually quite civil
to him when you last met.’
    ‘I’m always civil, darling.   You know that.   Extremely civil.’
    Now she was indignant.   ‘No, you are not!   You can be a real grouch!’
    I could tell my daughter’s mind was now
at rest.   She knew where her mother
was, and why she was not answering her phone.   She had always worried about her parents in that way.   Was it an only child thing?   After a few more jokes and mild
insults, she said she really must get to work and apologised for waking me.
    ‘You did not wake me, darling.’   I said.   ‘I’m still asleep.’

Chapter Eight

 
 
    The
next day I awoke early—I was still on the sofa—showered, dressed
and left for the office.   Everything
felt fresh again after last night’s rain.   I stopped for a coffee and croissant—the almond variety, Clara’s
favourite—and reviewed my case notes.
    Pretty soon I realised I was searching
for something that wasn’t there.   What was missing was a complainant.   In most cases, there is someone, however misguided or
deluded, who was prepared to pursue a case.   It was not the money.   I often undertake cases where there is very little chance of getting
paid.   But at least there is
someone around who is not going to
pay me sooner or later, someone who might or might not be grateful.   In this case I had nobody, not even a
bad debtor or potential ingrate, and I wasn’t even sure what Sir Simeon
Marchant was going to ask me.
    Perhaps
it was to do with the PiTech Merger ,
I read in my case notes .   Mr Prajapati might or might not have
been in favour of the take-over of the Russian conglomerate, Vassiliov
Holdings.   There is nothing in the
public domain either way.   We do know, however, he was going to take the
opportunity to sail around the world with his wife.   But that in itself is no indication
of his position in relation to the proposed take-over.
    True,
concern was expressed in some quarters that PiTech had
‘significant contracts’ with the Ministry of Defence, but there was nothing the
British Government could do, as the company was Indian owned and registered in
Mumbai.   It was possible
that—given his connections—Sir Simeon had some inside track on
this, but only he would know that.   He had not told his daughter, who seemed more exercised by the potential
loss of the £75,000.   The rest is
supposition.
    Perhaps
if my potential client were still alive, he would be able to tell me.   But, as he is dead, what have I to go
on?

 
    I
was pleased with the notes—I batted the croissant crumbs from them in a
protective manner—but they still led nowhere.   I would keep them in my file for potential cases that were
taken no further.  
    This decided, I tucked them away in my
jacket pocket and meandered down the High Street.   The sun was warming up the old stone already.   An ancient city, I thought, a city to
grow old in.   I went into WH Smiths
and bought a Telegraph .   The woman at the counter asked if I
would like any of the range of special offers that came with it.   I felt sorry for her, some marketing geek
back at HQ making her hawk Milky Bars and Tangfastics to people coming in
to buy newspapers or stationery.   No wonder there’s an obesity crisis, I thought.   If it isn’t chips with everything, it’s
chocolate.
    The phone was ringing as I entered my
office.   Even with its stained
glass window, the place always looked small and poky after a day out.   Perhaps now would be a good time to get
my own place, I thought.   But deep
down I knew I wouldn’t.   The truth
of the matter was: I was already set in my ways.